All of it.
Her mother’s handwriting.
Page after page.
What she had built.
What had been taken.
How.
By whom.
The names.
The dates.
The decisions.
His decisions.
Not all of them deliberate.
Some of them — most of them — made in a boardroom.
With other people.
Without knowing who would be hurt.
Without asking.
He set the notebook down at two in the morning.
Sat in the dark.
For a long time.
Then he picked up his phone.
Called his lawyer.
“I need to see you,” he said.
“First thing tomorrow.”
“What for?” the lawyer said.
He looked at the notebook.
At his daughter’s mother’s handwriting.
At six years of a small company.
Built carefully.
Destroyed carelessly.
“I need to fix something,” he said.
“Several things.”
“How many?” the lawyer said.
He turned the last page of the notebook.
Read the final entry.
I don’t know if he ever knew what he did.
I think perhaps he didn’t.
I think perhaps that’s worse.
Not malice.
Just indifference.
But our daughter deserves better than indifference.
From both of us.
So I am leaving her with the truth.
And with the hope
that truth is enough
to make someone change.
He set the notebook down.
“Enough,” he said.
“To keep me busy for a while.”
